Dreamthiever
by Shyaway
Summary: JackxScarlett: the history behind that slap.


Disclaimer: Pirates of the Caribbean and its characters are owned by Disney. I use them without permission, but with much love and respect.

Thanks to Geek Mama for the beta!

* * *

I've known a man or two thousand or so. Their faces blur into one, they all feel the same when they're poking into me, unwelcome but for the chinks they bring. I command a lot more this way than I could as a laundry maid or a seamstress. There's not as much call for clean clothes here as for whores. I've not kept count of the customers, only the cash. The bawd takes a chunk of my earnings. I save what I can of the rest, against the time when I'll have my own premises and live off the takings of others. 

Men. I was saying about men. I'm in demand with them, being quite well-known here in Tortuga - with good reason. I'm bloody good at my job. 'Scarlett the harlot' they call me, or more often than not just 'the redhead'. That's how they ask for me, and ask for me they do. The other girls hate it. Every day they pray I'll catch the pox.

I've been lucky about that so far. I use my wits as well - I won't shag a man with sores. Course, most whores can't choose. But _I_ can, and those that know me know they can't sweet-talk me round. I haven't listened to a man's lies since I was fourteen and first had recourse to pennyroyal.

Except...

You know who I'm going to name, don't you?

Jack Sparrow it is.

Jakc was different. Jack was special. He wouldn't hit a woman for one. I knew him wash a time or two. A full head of hair, a flat belly, and as pretty everywhere else as in his face. No nasty surprises when his clothes're stripped off, nothing to make me grit my teeth at times I really couldn't.

When he undressed me ... he liked to do that sometimes ... he could unlace me so gentle I wouldn't feel it till my stays were on the floor, or -

Why am I talking about him in the past tense? I don't rightly know what that means. Oh, I see. Dead? No! Don't you think everybody from here to Timbuktu would hear about it if Jack Sparrow kicked the bucket? It's because ... Buy me a drink and I'll tell you what happened.

Thanks. I first met Jack about three years ago. I came out here from England because I thought pirates would pay better. I'd been here a few months, was making my way well, was working for Mother Whybourn - best brothel in all Tortuga, you know. Of course Jack likes it. It was his first port of call whenever he was here. Well, he walked in that night about all the girls fluttered around him like silly moths while I thought he was like nothing I'd ever set eyes on. Have you seen him? He's festooned with scarves, he's got masses of black hair with beads and things in it, he wears kohl -

Yes, kohl. It's to keep the sun off.

Naturally I'd heard the stories. Sacked Nassau Port, escaped from the East India Trading Company, and all. I was agog to meet him.

He chose me that night because I was new. He likes novelty, Jack does. I was glad because when he came close I saw that he was beautiful. I pleased him; he asked for me again. He brought me presents. He would give me coral and tell me that next time it would be rubies. He touched me as though he cared. I began to think he did.

That all ended when I found out he'd gone to another woman of the brothel. That slut... My hopes were foolish. I put them aside and I didn't care when I heard he was spending a lot of time with someone from Mother Cresswell's. Giselle I think her name is.

That was almost a year ago. A few months ago he came crawling back. Giselle must not be up to much. I wouldn't listen at first, because I knew if I heard him out I'd be done for; Jack's the kind of man you want to believe even when you know he's lying. Sure enough he wheedled his way back into my bed. Afterwards I fell asleep while he was saying how delighted he was to be back with me, how much he'd missed me, what he'd do for me in the future, and so on.

When I awoke he was gone. I knew it was useless to expect anything else, but I had a feeling that something was amiss. Something - women's intuition, if you will - made me look for what it was. Didn't take me long. I haven't many possessions. Underneath my pots of makeup - ceruse, kohl, rouge - was the box where I kept my money, everything I'd saved towards having my own establishment.

He'd taken it. He'd taken my savings. He'd put everything else back neat and tidy, but it was gone. Every penny. Every pound. Everything I'd put towards my independence. He'd taken years of hard work and made me work them all over again, because there's no recovering it now. Likely he won't even remember he pinched it. All in a day's work for him.

That's Jack. That's the man he is. He gives a dream and steals it back the same night.

_And_ he used my kohl.

So no, he's not dead now, but when I get my hands on him... Except I can't give him the chance to say anything because if I let him plead his case he'll give me that begging doe-eyed look and charm me into letting him skip off unscathed. Damn him.

What? You expected it to be more dramatic than that? It had a dramatic enough effect on _me_. No, of course you don't care about my troubles. I'm nobody, after all. Just another in Jack's harem. He's so special and I'm not.

You could make me feel special! Bloody hell, don't try that on with -

... Yes. Yes, I do need the money. There are rooms abovestairs. I'm three shillings a time...


End file.
